


It's Cold Outside

by Salambo06



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Conversations, Cuddling, Declarations Of Love, First Kiss, First Time, Frottage, Kissing, M/M, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Sharing a Bed, Snuggling, awkward erections
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-10
Updated: 2017-12-10
Packaged: 2019-02-12 23:27:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12970743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salambo06/pseuds/Salambo06
Summary: John and Sherlock, Christmas night, the heat broke, add some shared body heat and (not so) accidental erections mixed with some miscommunication and awkwardness and, you guessed it, they’re sharing a bed.





	It's Cold Outside

**Author's Note:**

> Since I can never resist bed sharing fic, and that xmas is the best of the year for that, here is yet another xmas fic for you.
> 
> A huge thank you to [Heather](http://snogbox1.tumblr.com/) for editing this story!
> 
> Enjoy,  
> Pauline.

“What do you mean you don’t know?”

Sherlock smiles, taking another sip of his soon to be cold tea and glancing at John, still pacing in the living room. Good thing Mrs Hudson isn’t home or she’d be going crazy hearing him walk around above her head. Sherlock isn’t sure how long John had been on the phone exactly, it could be easily hours now, which is highly probable considering who he’s talking to. Sherlock can’t help but admire once again his quite extraordinary patience in such situations, managing to remain calm, pulling the phone away from his face when he needs to take a deep breath or simply mime death to him. One thing is certain, Sherlock would have been yelling at the idiot over the phone in less than three minutes if it had been him, deducing just what he needs to force that idiot to do something, maybe even place one or two threats here and there to make it go faster. But there’s also a high chance he wouldn’t have even called at all, but John is right, no heat during one of the coldest nights of the year isn’t something he’s looking forward to either.

“It’s been hours,” John continues, an edge of anger in his voice now. “Surely you know what caused it by now?”

Sherlock represses a chuckle when he sees John roll his eyes, casting him a yet another desperate look, but Sherlock only shrugs. He looks back at the fire they built when the heat had stopped, almost two hours ago now, and he loses himself in the flames once again. He can’t remember the last time they shared an evening like this one, quiet, peaceful, and even less such a nice Christmas. The last one he had spent alone, wondering if he’d ever have the chance to share the next one with anyone at all, and the one before he doesn’t wish to remember at all. But this year, in their home, just the two of them, well, this has been John’s best idea for sure. Sherlock hadn’t been convinced at first when John had asked to spend the evening without anyone else, just the two of them at Baker Street. After all, they hadn’t shared a holiday, or even that much time alone in months, and the prospect of it all being only awkward and filled with silence didn’t appeal to Sherlock at all.

But as he looks down at the set of new journals on his lap, the ones John had carefully wrapped, Sherlock can’t help but wish he could go back in time and relive the past few hours again, even just once, even just to watch John’s face as he opened his present again. One finger stroking the cover of the red journal absently, he allows himself to glance back at him, just one more time. He’s been casting him shy looks all evening, and surely John is going to notice at some point. It’s not as if it was easy not to, especially with the way John dressed for the night. Everything about his clothing screamed careful preparation, and Sherlock hadn’t been able to stop wondering how long it had taken John to pick each piece of clothing for tonight. God knows he had thought about his own for hours, finally going for the blue shirt seemed to like so much lately. Obviously, having spent most of the evening much closer than usual hadn’t made it easier either. They’d remained in their chairs or the kitchen table the entire time, but even there, Sherlock is certain the space between their chairs have shrunk as the minutes ticked by.

“Yes, alright,” John finally says, sitting on his chair and sighing. “Thank you anyway.”

Sherlock waits until he hangs up before asking, “Useless?”

“Don’t be cocky,” John replies, leaning back and sighing a bit louder. “It looks like we’re gonna have to spend the night without heating.”

“It’s not that cold,” Sherlock points out, finishing his tea in one sip.

“That’s because of the fire,” John replies, smiling as if Sherlock had said something funny. “Your bed is going to be very cold, trust me.”

“Then I’ll just have to spend the night here,” Sherlock replies, the idea quite appealing now that John is back facing him. “I didn’t plan to sleep anyway.”

“Well, I do,” John says, eyes fluttering closed for a second. “I can’t believe this is happening, tonight of all nights.”

“They’ll fix it soon enough,” Sherlock tries, actually having no clue on the efficiency of the heating company on Christmas Eve.

“Right,” John sighs, shaking his head as he shifts to the edge of his chair. “In the meantime, I’m going to try and sleep.” Sherlock holds his breath as their eyes meet, realising the evening is somehow coming to an end, and wishing he could find something, anything to hold John back just a little longer. “Are you sure you won’t?”

Sherlock nods, unable to formulate any coherent sentence that wouldn’t involve the three different shades of blue in John’s eyes.

“It was, despite it all, a very nice evening,” John smiles, sounding hesitant all the sudden. “Yeah?”

“Yes,” Sherlock manages to reply, clearing his throat.

“I’m glad we did it,” John says, his tone much softer now. “It’s been too long since we last had a moment to ourselves.” Sherlock decides to keep to himself the exact amount of months, hours and minutes. “If you change your mind, don’t forget to put another log of wood in there before going to bed.”

Sherlock nods, too focused on watching John stand up and walk to the bathroom to reply anything at all. He waits until he hears the door closing before letting out a deep sigh and closing his eyes. He’s still stroking the journal, trying to find that warm feeling that had overwhelmed him when he had opened his gift, remembering with a trembling precision the smile that had lit John’s face then. Of course, he had himself spent hours trying to find the perfect gift for John, and he had little doubt the set of authentic books John liked so much would be a bad idea, but still. He hadn’t expected to feel this incandescently happy opening a present, and the fact that it came from John had, in the end, everything to do with it.

“Ok, heading to bed now.”

Sherlock jumps in surprise, looking up sharply to find John staring back at him.

“Goodnight,” he smiles, one hand already on the door handle but his entire body turned toward him. “And thank you again, for the books.”

“I’m pleased you liked them,” Sherlock replies, throat dry.

“I really do,” John breathes, his smile stretching to his eyes. “Merry Christmas, Sherlock.”

Sherlock licks his lips, nodding without even thinking of saying it back, but John is already walking away, the sounds of his footsteps on the stairs echoing in the now silent living room for a long moment. “Goodnight, John,” he breathes, a heavy weight in his chest.

How did he manage to let it slip through his fingers again? It’s been months since he decided to at least try to do something, anything, to see if there was even the slightest chance that John might understand what he feels. Might even share those feelings keeping Sherlock awake day and night. Obviously he had immediately thought that this Christmas would be the perfect opportunity. John loves Christmas, always has, and of course he would be in a good mood all evening. Sherlock would only have had to say something, sit closer, let one hand linger just a second longer, and he would have known.

But, as usual, John had smiled and laughed and looked at him with something bright in his eyes, and Sherlock had lost control all over again. How could he think of trying if it meant losing _this_. Losing the mere chance of witnessing another of John’s full body laughs at yet another case anecdote. How could he be ready to risk it all? He had turned down so many opportunities by now that the weight in his chest is almost natural now.

Closing his eyes again, he tries his best to go through each minute of the evening they just shared, storing each and every detail in his Mind Palace, going from room to room and putting all of John’s smiles and laughter in boxes, just in case. He makes sure not to forget John’s quiet moan when he had tasted the sauce Sherlock had agreed to make to help him, and he remains in that room for a long moment, playing that very sound over and over again.

By the time he manages to store it all at the right places, the fire has died. He represses a sigh because of course he would even ruin that, but he doesn’t have the time to do anything about it when he hears the floor cracking. He looks up just in time to watch John walk back inside the room, a cover around him but his entire body shaking anyway.

“It died off,” he says, his voice barely a whisper.

“Sorry,” Sherlock replies, and he realises now he’s shaking too. When had it gone so cold?

“What are you still doing there?” John sighs, walking closer. “You’re not even wearing your jacket.”

“I didn’t… notice.”

“Of course you didn’t,” John replies, sounding amused now. “You should get to bed, try to warm up.”

“Clearly it’s not working,” Sherlock points out, another long shiver running through John despite the duvet.

“I was coming to steal your covers actually,” he replies. “But you clearly need it.”

 _We can share_ , Sherlock immediately thinks. _Covers and body heat, it’ll work. It’s science. Even you can’t deny science, John_. _You’re a doctor, you know how it works._

“Come on,” John continues, oblivious to Sherlock’s current train of thoughts. “Up you go.”

Sherlock gets to his feet, not sure how exactly, and follows John toward his bedroom still lost inside his own head. It could be so simple, he just has to ask John, to tell him this is the most logical option, and with one or two scientific facts, John could only agree. He only has to ask. Just ask.

“What were you doing in there anyway?” John chuckles, “Freezing to death?”

Sherlock opens his mouth. Not a sound comes out.

“I almost want to take a bath now,” John continues, having now stopped in front of Sherlock’s door. “But that would only make it worse afterward.”

“Not your brightest idea, John,” Sherlock says, cursing himself right after.

“I know,” John laughs, “blame it on the cold.”

 _Now,_ Sherlock thinks. _Ask now._

“John, I-”

“Actually, I was thinking we could share body heat.”

It takes a long second for Sherlock to understand what John just said, the words having rushed out his mouth so fast. And then, his own voice breaks as he says, “What?”

“Body heat,” John repeats, looking everywhere but at him. “It seems like the most efficient way of warming up. I’m sure you know perfectly well how it works.”

“Obviously,” Sherlock finds himself saying, and at least, it’s making John smile again.

“So?” He asks, eyes meeting his for the briefest of seconds.

“Yes,” Sherlock finally breathes out, his answer hanging in the air like a promise. “Let’s do that.”

“Good,” John says, nodding sharply. “Take your covers. I’ll wait for you upstairs.”

He’s gone before Sherlock can say anything else, and it takes him another long moment before he realises he can’t just remain standing there. He goes through his bedtime routine on automatic, thoughts of what’s waiting for him in the upstairs bedroom, who is waiting for him, going on a loop inside his head. Will John change his mind by the time he gets there? Or will he be already in bed, waiting for him? Maybe having managed to have fallen asleep in the meantime? _It’s alright_ , Sherlock finds himself thinking. _Even just lying down next to him is perfectly fine_.

His legs are heavy by the time he climbs the stairs, his breath short and his heart racing when he pushes the door open. He finds John’s eyes right way. They don’t exchange a single word as Sherlock closes the door and places his covers on the bed. John shifts, the sound of his body on the sheet raising goosebumps on Sherlock’s arms. He shakes the feeling away, really, really not wanting to make a fool of himself before having even joined John under the covers, which he does with a rapidity that even impresses himself.

“You should,” John starts, clearing his throat. “I mean, it’ll be more efficient if we’re both in just our pants.”

And just like that, Sherlock realises John is practically naked in that bed.

“Right,” he breathes, sliding his pajama bottoms off and removing his shirt much more slowly this time. He immediately seeks the warmth of the covers, and lies down completely next to John.

Silence falls upon them again, Sherlock knowing without a doubt what they should do next, but finding it hard even just to think about it. He places both hands on his stomach, freezing cold, and exhales quietly. He can hear John’s breathing next to him, standing entirely still, and he shuts his eyes close tightly. “We need to be closer for this to work,” he hears himself say.

“Yes, of course,” John replies immediately, shifting next to him. “Since you’re taller, you should be the one wrapped around me.”

This had Sherlock opening his eyes in less than a second, and he only has to look to see that John has his back turned to him already, obviously waiting for him to come closer. “Alright,” he breathes out, moving closer with his heart beating in his ears until he’s pressed against John’s entirely. It takes another minute or two for the two of them to find the right position, Sherlock’s chest against John’s back, and their legs tangled together. After a beat of stillness, John reaches for his hand and places it against his chest, trapped between his own.

“There,” he says, and Sherlock has to close his eyes again, fearing it might already be too much.

Soon only their breathing is filling the room, and Sherlock isn’t sure he’ll ever be able to speak again, or move for that matter. With so much to feel, so much to catalogue all of the sudden, he knows for a fact he might need years to remember the exact feeling of John’s ankle against his own. He does his best not to move, not to disturb the fragile arrangement they came up with that it takes him another full minute to notice John is talking.

“-and my sister never recovered.”

“Hmmm,” Sherlock replies, having no idea what he supposed to be say.

“But my mom never gave up on making her love Christmas,” John continues, shifting just a little and now the scar on his shoulder blade is right under Sherlock’s nose, and he’d rather focus on that. He holds his breath, afraid John will notice his quiet observation, and takes in the damaged skin. He deduces all he’s never been able to before, the exact distance of the shot and the instruments the doctor used to repair the wound.

“Sherlock, are you listening to me?” John asks, forcing Sherlock to once again focus back on what he’s saying.

He hesitates for a full minute before asking, “What?”

John bursts into full laughter, his entire body shaking with it, and _oh_ , how could Sherlock have missed _that_ feeling. “God, we must look ridiculous,” John says between two laughs, not having stopped moving yet, and the situation goes from dangerous to critical in a second. Desperately trying to get it back under control, Sherlock shifts back just a little but John’s body follows automatically, seeking back warmth. Sherlock represses a sigh, teeth digging into his lower lip as his penis hardens inside his pants. Pressed against John’s arse. Erect.

The moment John goes still again, Sherlock barely manage to hold back a desperate moan.

“Sherlock,” John breathes, stopping there and Sherlock hates him just a little for it.

Feeling himself blush, he begins to retreat, taking back his hand from John’s, but John tugs him back in. “No,” he whispers. “Body heat.” Sherlock wants to laugh, wants to tell him he really doesn’t have to, but the words are a thorn inside his throat. “It’s perfectly normal,” John continues. “Closeness tends to do that to people.”

 _Not me,_ Sherlock wants to say.

“Hell,” John continues, laughing nervously. “I’m almost there myself.”

Sherlock knows before he hears it that the sharp inhale of breath echoing in the room comes from him, “You…”

“Yeah,” John replies, still whispering.

A thousand questions are rushing through Sherlock’s head again, none of them breaching his lips, but the possibilities now infinite. He forces himself to breathe in and out slowly, the knowledge that John is also erect, or at least on his way, making his own erection swell even more. How many times exactly did he find himself hiding an erection in the middle of a crime scene, in the back of a cab or lying down on the sofa? Too many times to recall, really. Still, luckily until now, Sherlock had always managed to conceal it, to make sure John wouldn’t notice until he could take care of it somehow. And if that meant stroking himself to oblivion in the shower or on his bed, well, Sherlock has gotten used to it now.

“I could turn around,” John suggests, “make it easier for you.”

Sherlock, not exactly sure if this is a brilliant or terrible idea, but being unable to reply anyway, only nods. John releases his hand, and without another word, turns around to face him. Avoiding his eyes, Sherlock lets him rearrange their bodies as he wants to, allowing much more space between them this time. Sherlock tries not to think about it, and more importantly, not to stare down when he feels John exhale loudly through his nose.

“Better?” John asks, voice barely a whisper.

“Hmm.”

Silence, again. And John, ever so daring,

“Has this happened before?”

Sherlock allows himself to consider every possible answer before saying, “Which part?”

“You know which part,” John replies, lips curling into a shy smile, eyes still not quite meeting his.

Sherlock choses defense, “I, as you said so many times, am human, John. Humans get erections.”

John rolls his eyes, “I know that, yes. But with your whole mind over transport thing, I thought maybe this wasn’t something you…. experienced.”

“I do,” Sherlock replies after another beat of silence, not sure which strategy to use anymore. “I happen to lose control from time to time,” he continues, staring at John’s scar again. “You’ve witnessed it before.”

“I know,” John breathes, his chest rising slowly. “But I’ve always wondered about this… in particular.”

Sherlock glances back up at him, another shade of red taking over his cheeks, “You’ve wondered if I’ve experienced erections.”

“You did say sex wasn’t your area when we first met,” John replies, almost defensively.

“I said a lot of things when we first met, John,” Sherlock whispers. “Time has passed since. Things have changed.”

One of John’s hand find his chest, forcing Sherlock’s eyes back to his, and they stare at each other for a long moment, silence settling between them again. Sherlock keeps all he still has to say to himself, letting John’s fingers begin to trace patterns, from his navel to his sternum, slowly moving up and down without ever going further. Sherlock wonders if John has thought of this too, about what it’d feel like to let their skin discover each other.

“What else changed?” John finally asks, a shiver in his voice that makes Sherlock’s heart miss a beat.

“Everything,” Sherlock replies, having no idea how to explain any of it. “You. Me.”

“Not sure for the better or the worse,” John whispers, eyes closing, but Sherlock’s hand finds his jaw, making him look back.

“Better,” he replies hasty.

John’s eyes find his, searching for a second before breaking into a smile, “Is it bad if I’m actually glad the heat broke?”

Sherlock thinks of their bodies so very close, of his erection that doesn’t seem to be going away, and John’s just inches away, and asks with a dry throat, “Glad?”

“Yes, conversations in bed tend to be the most interesting ones.”

Sherlock is about to contest that when he comes to realise what John is implying. Feeling himself blush again, he breathes in slowly, “Interesting?”

“It’s harder to lie, or even just feel the need to do so,” John says, sounding all too serious.

 _No lies_. Exactly what Sherlock had been trying to do for weeks, months even. Complete honestly, facing the consequences, getting it all out. “I used to hate these kinds of body reactions,” he says, finding courage in the hope in John’s eyes, “but I’ve gotten… used to it.”

“So, you don’t hate it anymore?”

Sherlock shakes his head, “Depends on the day.”

“And what about now?” John whispers.

Sherlock studies for a long moment, reading worry in the lines around John’s eyes, but also determination in his smile. And Sherlock loves him, loves to a point it makes it hard to trust any of his observations and not actually caring about it anyway. “I am not hating it.”

“But you’re uncomfortable?” John continues, the hand on Sherlock’s chest still stroking slowly. Sherlock shrugs, not exactly sure how to reply. “I mean, have you ever been in this state with someone else there?”

“No,” Sherlock breathes out, feeling naked in every sense of the word.

“You do know we can forget about this, we can- “John stops as a series of honks in the street make them both jump in surprise, resulting in John’s thigh being pressed directly into his pelvis and Sherlock can’t do anything to prevent a rather loud moan from escaping his lips.

Eyes widening in horror, he promptly looks down to John’s chest, wishing he could somehow disappear but John’s breathing is heavy now, and he’s not moving. _Not moving_. Sherlock blames it on his current state of mind for how long it takes him to realise what this means, and when John pushes his thigh more firmly against his erection, Sherlock looks back up sharply at him.

“John,” he breathes, already half panting.

“All right?” John asks, having stilled, and Sherlock can’t nod fast enough, all of him screaming for more already. He bites down on his lower lip, repressing another moan. “You’ll feel better after,” John says, as if to excuse his behavior, starting to rub his thigh against Sherlock’s crotch. “We both will.”

And with that, Sherlock realises he’s allowed to _touch_. The thought dazzles him to a point where John stops entirely, looking at him with something close to horror in his eyes, retreating already. “No,” Sherlock says, out of breath. “You can… You’re right I….” He stops, shutting his eyes and wishing he could somehow quiet down the alarms in his head.

“It’ll take the edge off,” John says, soft but careful. “Make it less awkward.”

And Sherlock doesn’t want to hear it, doesn’t want to listen to excuses for what they’re about to. He shakes his head, staring down at John’s hand still pressed on his chest, and takes a deep breath, “Continue.”

“Are you sure?” John still asks, having shifted back closer but not moving.

 _Yes, anything to touch you_. “Yes,” he replies, looking back up.

Without either of them looking away from the other’s eyes, John starts to move again, rubbing his thigh against Sherlock’s erection so very slowly. Their conversation having apparently not affected his current state of arousal, Sherlock finds himself already on the edge of desperation. One of his hands flies to John’s hip, holding tightly. He bites down on his lower lip, fighting back the urge to thrust back against him, but the hand on his chest moves to his neck, thumb brushing, “You can also- oh.”

Sherlock watches in awe as John’s entire body shiver with pleasure when he presses his own thigh to his pelvis. The heat radiating from John’s lower body, from the erect shape of his cock trapped in his pants, makes Sherlock want to ravish him. He shifts ever closer, if possible, and soon their faces are only inches apart. Staring down at John’s lips, Sherlock feels himself grow harder. But he looks down, focusing on all the point of contact between their bodies. Another sharp thrust of John’s thigh makes him gasp, and he pushes himself harder against John.

“Yes,” John pants, Sherlock glancing up to find his eyes closed, mouth hanging open.

 _More_ , Sherlock needs more. Rutting just a little faster against John, he forces himself to open his eyes again, and this time he doesn’t look away. John’s hand slides from his neck to his hair, holding on to his curls and panting directly against his mouth. It now feels a thousand times more powerful, John’s entire focus on him as their bodies act on their own volition, seeking pleasure from the other without shame. And Sherlock loves him, loves him, loves him.

Not allowing himself to hesitate, he slides the hand still on John’s hip to his arse, adding more pressure to their touch, and both of their moans echo in the room when thighs are replaced by crotches. “Oh god,” John whimpers, now rocking their erections together, and Sherlock is certain he’s going to either implode or combust into pleasure.

“John,” he manages to moan between two ragged breaths, not certain what he’s asking for.

Without breaking eye contact, John shifts their positions just so each new thrust are now making Sherlock shudder with pleasure. Feeling the first sign of an upcoming, shattering orgasm, Sherlock tries to warn John, but only another moan escapes his lips, a mix between John’s name and a groan.

“Oh fuck,” John curses, moving faster, thrusting harder, panting closer and closer to his mouth, and the moment Sherlock sees him glance down to his lips, his pleasure explode.

He throws his head back, his entire body arching against John’s as seconds stretch into hours. He vaguely hears John moan louder, move ever faster until he’s crying out his name, coming too. In a sudden flash of lucidity, Sherlock looks back at him, not wanting to miss a second of John’s orgasm. He finds him still looking back, eyes wide and the hand still in his hair tightening. They stare at each other in silence, still panting, still dazzled, and Sherlock loves every second of it.

“I…” John begins before swallowing back what he was about to say, and Sherlock wishes he could chase the words back with his own two lips. Another long moment passes without either of them moving, and when John’s lips turn into a small smile, Sherlock feels himself grow bolder. But John is chuckling softly as he says, “At least we’re not cold anymore.” and reality crushes back down Sherlock’s shoulders.

He clears his throat, pulling away, “Very efficient,” he manages to reply.

John unlocks his fingers from his hair, licking his lips, “Do you want to go clean up?”

Sherlock searches his face quickly, “Are you?”

“Don’t want to move.”

Sherlock shakes his head, not sure he’ll be able to come back to bed if he leaves now. “I’m fine.”

John nods, about to say something again but choosing to roll to his back instead. Sherlock almost protests, almost. He remains on his side, the evidence of what just happened wet in his pants, but he can’t think about this now. Not when John is right here and apparently slipping away all the same. A silence that could have been comfortable stretches into something much heavier, filled with all they should be saying, and Sherlock wants to pull John back to him and whisper it all against his neck.

This isn’t supposed to feel this way. In none of his fantasies do they remain lying side by side, awkward and unsure, and yet Sherlock is afraid to even move. He watches John’s profile for as long as he dares to before rolling to his back too. The ceiling being far less interesting, he closes his eyes and waits before locking himself in his Mind Palace. He listens to John’s regular breathing, watching out for any movement or sound that could prove he’s just as unsure about what to do next. But minutes tick by, and John doesn’t make a noise, doesn’t move a finger.

Breathing out as quietly as he can, Sherlock focuses on the warmth still radiating from John’s body. He takes comfort in it, trying to gather the courage to shift closer, even just one hand reaching for his, when John’s voice suddenly fills the silence, “That was okay, right?”

Sherlock isn’t sure if he wants to laugh or just kiss him, “Obviously.”

John still isn’t moving.

“Ok. Yeah. Good.”

Sherlock shuts his eyes tighter, nails digging into his skin.

“Better fall asleep now before we get cold again,” John continues, and small talk had never, ever been more tedious than in this very instant. “Goodnight.”

Sherlock doesn’t reply, not sure he can. And good if John thinks he’s mad or regretting or just doesn’t care. Anything to have him react, to have him snuggle close again and demand that they talk about what they just did. But silence stretches again, and Sherlock counts the minutes until he can hear John’s breathing easing out and feels his entire body relaxing. Only then does he turn to his side again, staring for as long as he can before retreating to the safety of his own head.

And somehow, between remembering the feeling of John’s hand in his hair and the sound he made as he climaxed, Sherlock falls asleep.

He wakes up to a hand shaking his shoulder and a body half on top of his. For a tangible moment, he wonders if he’s still dreaming or not, memories of warm skin and heated kisses lingering in the back of his mind. But then, John’s voice fills the room, hoarse and full of hunger, “You were dreaming... moaning.” John’s hand slides to his neck, shaking. “Saying my name.”

Sherlock whimpers, slowly coming to realise he’s had yet another dream full of John’s naked body pressed to his own, but this time with John right there when he wakes up. “John, I…” he begins but John shakes his head, breathing heavily.

“You were saying my name, Sherlock,” he says, making all of Sherlock shiver. “And it might sound insane, and I’m probably going to make a fool of myself in a second, but you were moaning my name and now I’m thinking it means something, something important and-”

“John,” Sherlock stops him, having managed to regulate his breathing somehow.

“God, Sherlock, I…” John exhales loudly, moving as if to roll back to his side of the bed, and Sherlock closes one arm around his waist, keeping him where he is.

“Don’t,” he whispers, desperately hoping John would don his share of courage, because with his heart already on the edge of exploding inside his chest, Sherlock isn’t sure he can do much than just that. “Stay.”

“I’ve messed up,” John rushes out, eyes roaming all over his face. “Earlier, I did it all wrong. I didn’t mean to sound like a proper jerk, telling you it was only to warm up, to feel better. God, I’m a complete idiot.”

“I thought we established that yes,” Sherlock replies, lips curling into a smile, and John imitating him.

“We did, yes.”

They stare at each other for a long moment, Sherlock’s arousal having died off now, but the closeness of John’s body making his head spin just a little.

“I should have kissed you,” John whispers, and Sherlock can’t help the small whimper that breaches his lips. “Before doing anything else, before pretending I wasn’t going out of my skin just touching you. For god’s sake, I even bloody joked about it afterward.” He sighs, head dropping. “I should have kissed you.”

Sherlock remembers to breathe, his exhale echoing in the room as John’s eyes don’t leave his. He should be saying something, should reciprocate, should tell him he would have loved nothing more but to kiss him too. He should tell him that it was all he could think about afterward, wondering if kissing him through his orgasm would have made it even better; should tell him that thoughts of his lips followed him all the way to his dreams. But in the end, “John,” is the only sound he manages to let out, weak and uncertain.

“Earlier, you said a lot changed since that first dinner,” John says in a murmur but Sherlock can hear each and every nuance in his voice perfectly. “What did you mean by that, truly?”

It takes another long minute before Sherlock finds the courage to reply, heart sinking inside his chest and head spinning with the mere realisation of speaking it all out loud, “I meant everything changed, John. From the way I allowed myself to look at you to the shattering need to have you by my side constantly. What I had failed to understand facing you at Angelo’s, I’ve learned to analyse and accept over the years.”

John’s breath is heavy when he says, “Accept?”

Trying desperately to put back order in the chaos inside his head, Sherlock closes his eyes and breathes out deeply. He feels John’s fingers move from his neck to his curls, and he can’t help but melt into the touch, “One afternoon, you came back from work and went directly for the sofa. You were asleep in less than a minute, your jacket and shoes still on, and I watched you from my chair for what could have been hours. I watched you and I thought to myself that I would love to find a place on that sofa next to you and hold you, just hold you.”

John’s head fall sto his chest, nuzzling against his neck. Sherlock breathes him in.

“When you woke up, it was already dark outside and you immediately burst out laughing at yourself. You asked me if I had performed experiments on you while you slept, but I could read on your face you knew perfectly well I wouldn’t have dared. I realised you knew me too well and that I didn’t mind, that I only wanted to hear you laugh again, and maybe even kiss the sound directly from your lips.”

With shaking hands, Sherlock slides them both up John’s back and to his nape, cradling his head softly, “I didn’t say a single word during the hours that followed and you didn’t mind. You made dinner, offered me some and didn’t say anything when I refused. You simply sat at the kitchen table, reading a paper and then joined me in your own chair. You reported some of the news for me, murders and disappearances that could pique my interest. You were right in front of me, our feet almost touching, and it would have been so easy to simply stand up and crawl onto you. Make our bodies into one, and remain there infinitely.”

“Sherlock,” John breathes, voice broken with a sob. He doesn’t move, lips brushing Sherlock’s neck as he speaks, “Are you saying you love me?”

“Yes,” Sherlock breathes, a warm smile on his lips and his chest light, so very light with it. “Yes.”

John’s body shakes with laughter as he pulls away just enough to look down at him, a single tear rolling down to the corner of his lips, stretched into a bright smile, “Then I think it’s only fair if I tell you I would have loved to wake up on that sofa with your body next to mine. Just like I would have laughed again and again with each kiss you’d given me. Just like I would have welcomed you into my arms on that chair, like I’ve imagined too many times.” Moving one hand from his hair to his cheek, John slowly strokes his lower lip, “Because you see, Sherlock Holmes, I’ve been in love with you for what seems like a small eternity already, and I’m afraid I might combust any second now.”

Sherlock stares and stares, and soon his own laughter resonates inside the room, full of promise of what’s to come. He threads both hands into John’s hair, words and words and words waiting on the tip of his tongue and yet none seeming important enough to follow John’s.

“So even if we already agreed I’m an idiot,” John continues, “I need you to know being with someone has never felt this intense before, and what we shared just hours ago already surpassed everything I’ve imagined.”

“Even if we didn’t kiss,” Sherlock replies, suddenly overwhelmed with the need to.

“Yes,” John breathes out, “But it would have it even better, that much is certain.”

Sherlock’s eyes drop to his lips as he says, “You still haven’t done it.”

He watches as John’s tongue darts out to lick his lower lip, and his breath catches. He’s not sure who moves first but when they collide in the middle, Sherlock’s entire brain shuts down. Only able to focus on the exact feeling of John’s lips against his now, he gives himself entirely to it. He barely registers John settling between his legs, parting them automatically as the first touch of John’s tongue makes all of him crave more. The next moan filling the room is definitely his, and Sherlock blames it on the distinct taste of green tea on John’s tongue dancing with his.

“No,” he protests the second John pulls away, and doesn’t give him the time to say anything before chasing back his mouth in a demanding kiss. He’s the one to part John’s lips this time, keeping both hands in his hair to make sure he won’t try to escape again. John is smiling, and Sherlock marvels at the mere possibilities of tasting that smile, of making it his in every sense of the word.

“Sherlock,” John pants between two more kisses, not moving away this time.

“Don’t stop.”

“Not stopping, I promise,” John replies, smiling again.

“Then why are you talking?” Sherlock asks before realising how he might sound, but John is laughing, a true, warm laugh that forces Sherlock to pull away and open his eyes again. “Sorry,” he whispers. “It’s only that it turned out to be much better than I’d imagined, and I’d rather like to continue if you don’t mind.”

“Don’t apologize,” John breathes, “I don’t plan on stopping any time soon.”

“Good,” Sherlock replies, relaxing again, and seeking John’s lips again.

“But,” John says just as he about to be kissed, “I’m afraid there are things that need to be talked about first, because I know for a fact things can escalate very quickly.”

Sherlock frowns, trying to figure out what John could be talking about, and it only takes a slow roll of his hips for him to get it. “Oh,” Sherlock breathes, suddenly very much aware of his renewed arousal. “Didn’t we pass that earlier?”

“Our talk earlier was rushed,” John replies, having raised himself just a little higher again, their erections no longer touching. “And I’d prefer if-”

“John,” Sherlock cuts him off. “You woke me up in a middle of an erotic dream in which we were, much like now, about to make love. I think it says enough.”

“What we dream about and what we’re ready to experience are two different things, Sherlock.”

“I know,” Sherlock breathes, wishing he could find the words to make John understand. “I had years to study my reactions to your touch, voice or mere presence. Just like I had years to think about what I would do if the occasion presented itself. I trust you and am ready, John, for all you’d like to experience with me.”

“I love you,” John rushes out, “God, I love you.” He all buts throws himself at him again, and Sherlock parts his lips immediately, welcoming him in with a deep moan. He wraps one leg around his waist, urging John to settle back between them, and the friction makes them both groan into the kiss.

It all happens in a blur, from John’s mouth descending to his neck to the feeling of their bare erections brushing together when they finally manage to remove both of their pants. Sherlock catalogues it all, in between moments of complete bliss, and hopes each time will feel just a marvelous as this one. On a silent accord, they slow back down the moment John’s fingers slide down his sides and to his hips. Sherlock exhales loudly, nails dug into John’s back, and looks down to watch him kiss his way to his navel.

“John,” he moans, breath short.

John kisses at his hip bone and much lower, teasing with barely a few kisses on his erection, never moving to take it inside his mouth, and Sherlock thanks him silently. He’s not sure he would have been able to restrain himself from spending himself in that mouth, and he needs more right now, needs to be connected to John in the most intimate of way. It doesn’t stop him from shaking with anticipation when John’s hands part his legs wider, or even breathing out deeply when he realises how exposed he now is.

“Still okay?” John asks, looking up at him, and Sherlock nods. “You need to tell me if I do something you don’t enjoy, not everyone likes this, all right?”

“Yes,” Sherlock replies, knowing John needs a verbal confirmation. “I know.”

John gives him a sharp nod before moving quickly to his bedside table and retrieving some lube. Sherlock watches, eyes wide and breath short, his erection growing harder at the sight of John pouring some on his fingers. He licks his lips, John’s hand moving up and down his own erection, lubing it quickly but efficiently, and Sherlock can’t help but wonder if he’s feeling just as eager. He gets ready for the cold sensation to come and yet jumps in surprise at the feeling of John’s finger against his perineum. John kisses his knee softly, moving his finger lower and lower until he’s massaging his entrance.

John takes his time, and Sherlock loves him, loves him to a point where he can’t take his eyes off him, can’t look away from his focused, concerned face as he thrusts one, two, three fingers in ever so slowly. Sherlock loves him, and thinks this could probably destroy him, could break him apart and shatter him whole. But suddenly there is John lowering himself on top of him again, pushing inside him with something so very bright shining in his eyes, and Sherlock loves him, loves him, loves him.

“I…” John begins, having settled deep inside him now. “God, Sherlock, I-”

Sherlock shakes his head, his heart on his lips and his entire body getting used to this crushing feeling of _belonging_. He brings back John’s lips to his, not kissing, just breathing the other in, letting it all sink in, and when they move, they’ve become one and one only. It’s slow, so very slow, and at the same time Sherlock feels as if it all goes too fast. He moans and cries and whimpers into John’s mouth, against his skin, and feels each thrust with an overwhelming accuracy. All of it taking him to the corner of pleasure, balancing there for what could be hours before tipping over the the edge and taking John down with him.

And it doesn’t matter if he cries afterward or even denies it because John is kissing each tear away, turning them all into something much brighter, and Sherlock doesn’t ever want to let go again.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments, kudos and feedbacks are always appreciated!  
> follow me @[ggaypilot](http://ggaypilot.tumblr.com/)  
> 


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